


Apotheosis

by thediscontent



Series: heaven send, hell away [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, King GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Knight Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), M/M, Porn With Plot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Oral Sex, dethronement arc babyyyy, i guess lol, they are not nice to eachother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29113548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thediscontent/pseuds/thediscontent
Summary: Monarchs rule by the divine right of kings, handpicked by God. But what does one do when their God forsakes them?
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: heaven send, hell away [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2180499
Comments: 64
Kudos: 738
Collections: MCYT





	Apotheosis

**Author's Note:**

> uh...this is a long one babes. put ur boots on, we going for a ride. (also i did upload this last night but i fucked up so i reposted it smh)

  
  


_A king’s time as a ruler rises and falls like the sun._

Dream had told him this was coming. Months ago, years even, a warning wrapped up in a sideways profession of devotion-beautiful words given to him with a smile and a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

His time surely had risen with the sun. Dream gathering him in his arms, riding to the castle as they laughed together, the wind whipping through his golden hair. Dream taking Eret’s crown, smashing it under his boot until it was nothing but a ragged twist of metal. He remembered when Dream had first crowned him, not in an abbey, nor in front of genuflecting nobles, but alone. Just them, a band of delicate silver glistening in Dream’s hands, and the light from the stained glass windows painting their faces in brilliant color. Dream had knelt, professing his devotion and allegiance, anointing him in holy oil, hands of gold on his head and breast. He pledged his body to George’s service, to his protection, and pressed a kiss to the knuckles of his thin hand. Kissed his jaw, his throat, showing his love, venerating his lover, crowned king of a country he couldn’t care less for. 

George hated the actual job, the constant court meetings and simpering noblemen groveling at his feet, backstabbing and treachery a continual concern. The people tolerated him, no worse than their last king, so he made no great effort to reach out or mollify them. He did like having power, that much he cannot deny. After years of being dubbed Dream’s second-hand man, it was a nice change to be in the spotlight. 

Days of laughter and finery, nights of pleasure on silken beds, Dream made sure that crown never fell from his head. He’d held him aloft, kept him in wealth and safety, had given him the love and affection George had missed during the wars. Dream had been his protector, cutting down would-be assassins, slaying the beasts that threatened to slash his throat, baying for the blood of the apathetic king. 

George trusted him. He put all his faith in his golden boy, all his hopes and dreams, everything he had, everything he hid from his people, the public, he gave. Dream protected his soul, kept him on the right path, held his hand when the times got rough, sheltered him with his body when storms of wrath rolled in. 

The sun had risen so high that George could hardly see the darkness. So high the shadows were scalded from the earth, and George lost himself in the light. So high that he missed the way Dream started looking at him. 

Sunset had come all at once, and George was plunged into shadow before he was ready. Dream became distant, and George couldn’t figure out what it was that he’d done wrong, no matter how hard he tried. It ached, the loss of attention, the absence of a body, warm and heavy in his bed. Dream avoided him, and when they were together, something was inexplicably wrong. Delicately touching him in passing, a gentle hand on his elbow as he was led through crowds, a protective comfort too quickly removed, Dream striding ahead of him into the darkness.

The day Dream dethroned him was not exceptional. It was not storming; no beasts of wind nor rain whirled above the parapets, no screaming wraiths or phantoms to signify the last rise of the monarch. It was a simple day, as all days before it, and it would tear a hole through life itself with the fury it threatened to unleash.

He woke alone that morning, and the castle was dead silent as he dressed in cobalt, head adorned in delicate silver. Hesitantly, he descended into the great hall, where Dream stood, haloed in sunshine and fury. 

“Dream?” George called, stumbling over the long end of his mantle as he hurried to his lover’s side. Dream turned, watching as George walked to stand next to him, barely coming up to his shoulder. Dream reached his hand out to steady him, cradling his waist, giving him a guilty smile. 

“George.” Dream cooed, brushing the hair that had fallen into George’s eyes away. His hands tightened around his waist as George stood on his toes to press a kiss to the bottom of his jaw, skin bare where the mask didn’t entirely cover. 

“What’s going on?” George turned, gesturing to the empty castle. “Where is everyone?”

“They...well-,” Dream stopped, leading George to a windowsill, sitting him down on the stone and stepping back a step to kneel in front of him. He took a deep breath, gazing up at George with a delicate reverence. “Listen, George, I need to talk to you.”

“Really?” George snarked, “I wouldn’t have guessed with the way you’ve been avoiding me.” 

Dream’s eyes hardened, flexing his jaw angrily. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, Dream.” George sighed, a resentment he did not realize he held rising in his chest. “We both know the truth.”

Dream’s mask stared back at him blankly, but the loud exhale of exasperation from under it was unmistakable. He rocked back and forth on his heels, armor grinding against itself as he stood uneasily, towering over George. 

“Technoblade came to the castle last night.” Dream explained, nervously running his fingers over the hilt of his sword. 

“Technoblade? I thought you killed him.”

“I never knew. I hoped I did, but we never found a body.” Dream cut him off, gripping the rough pommel of his sword. His brow creased as he unsheathed it, and George admired the sunshine diffusing off of it, slices of purple and blue light cutting across the floor. “He was here, George. Flesh and blood.”

“What happened?” George asked, nervously twisting his signet ring around on his finger. 

Techno was relentless in his tirade against George, an anti-monarchical ghoul lurking around every corner. They had last battled after Techno breached their private home, nearly slaying George in Dream’s arms before the warrior snapped awake, brandishing the sword he kept near their bedside. The two warriors brawled all night, and the earth itself shook in their power. Dream slashed Techno’s ear off, but for his efforts, he’d lost a chunk of flesh from his side. Streaks of red stained his mask, Techno’s hair chopped haphazardly, hacking and flying at each other with violent fervor until, finally, in a moment of weakness, Dream managed to spear Techno, slicing him rib to navel. Techno collapsed in a heap of pink, blood black as tar in the moonlight, and Dream shakily made his way back to George before he too slumped to the ground, exhausted. 

Dream flexed his shoulders, his armor gleaming hard in the skylight, the strange ephemeral glow of the enchantments threading through his breastplate. 

“He killed 10 of my men last night. Good men. _Loyal_ men.” 

Dream ran his finger over the edge of his blade, blood welling up where he let it slice through the skin. George stood, grabbing the offending finger and pressing the pad to his tongue, lapping at it as hot iron filled his mouth. Dream watched, in awe, eyes tracing George’s bottom lip. 

“And you?” George asked, letting go of his finger with a wet _pop_.

“H-huh?” Dream stuttered, a bit preoccupied with the red lips that had just been wrapped around his finger. 

“You.” George shook his head, pinching the back of Dream’s hands to redirect his attention. 

“What did you do?” 

Dream’s face darkened, remembering the glint in Techno’s eyes when he’d seen Dream, planted directly in front of George’s chambers, prepared to give his life. “He stopped. He saw me defending the royal wing and fled.” That was a bit of a simplification of events, but George didn’t necessarily have to know how long Dream had stared Techno down, chaos coming to a standstill as the world was reduced to the ire of two warriors. 

“Why?” George asked, breaking Dream out of his reminiscing. 

“He probably doesn’t want a repeat of last time we fought, so he won’t attack-not with me there, at least.” Dream spat, like the words were barbed in his mouth. “He wants you _alone_.”

George was a skilled fighter in his own right, all swift feet, and quick jabs, but even Dream struggled against Techno, so he knew if worse came to worst, George wouldn’t stand a chance.

George nodded, fiddling with Dream’s hands, much bigger and rougher than his own. Silver scars embraced each knuckle, wedding bands of violence.

“Do...do you think he’ll ever stop?” He asked, his eyes wide and unafraid. 

“No.” Dream blinked, swallowing thickly as he looked at the smeared blood on George’s lips. “No, I don’t think he will.”

George nodded his head and gently maneuvered Dream’s hand so that it cupped his soft cheek. His smile was private, an intimate thing he hardly ever showed in public, saved for Dream. 

“I don’t know how else to say this, so I’m just going to be blunt.” Dream whispered, almost inaudible. “I don’t…” He fought with himself, shaking his head, spun gold catching light. 

“I don’t think you should be king anymore.”

George let go of Dream’s hand, flagging. His brow creased in disbelief, deep confusion and hurt on his face. “What did you say?”

Dream stepped forward, reaching out to hold George’s thin shoulders. He made his face as kind and easy as he could manage, moving one of his hands to the back of George’s neck. “Just listen, I can give it back to Eret-”

“Eret?” George questioned. He looked at Dream with blood on his teeth and wrath in his eyes. “You-you can’t just-”

“I can.” Dream grabbed George’s hands, beseeching him. “I _have_ to.”

George shoved him off, hands flying wildly through the air as he raged. 

“Why? I don’t understand-”

“George _-_ ,” Dream reached out to him, seizing his wrists. George tried to shake him off, pulling away in vain. “Stop it- _George_. Technoblade is relentless. He won’t stop until you have fallen.” Dream shivered, and his eyes grew dark and angry, grasping George’s wrists hard enough to bruise. “You _cannot_ die. I won’t lose you.”

“Then protect me, Dream! Be here, be with _me_.” George exclaimed, his voice trembling into something that resembled a beg.

“I cannot be here all the time; I physically can’t, no matter how hard I try-” Dream explained, his voice growing louder and rougher by the minute. George ripped his hands away, shaking with rage, hysterical laughter bubbling up his throat.

“Fuck, Dream.” George ran his hands through his hair, his nails clacking against his circlet. His hands shook, and Dream’s sword clattered to the floor as he let it go, stepping forward to wrap his arm around George’s shoulders. “Fuck.”

Dream panicked, wracking his brain for an explanation that George would be satisfied with. “Just _listen_ to me.” How could he make George understand the visceral terror that he felt every time he saw a stray flash of metal in their direction? How could he tell him he spent hours lying awake every night, just waiting for someone to ambush them and take George away, just as Techno had tried to do?

His mind whirled for an excuse, coming to the nearest one he had and sticking to his guns. With wild eyes and mussed hair, he tried to pull George close again, despising the distance between them. George resisted, jerking just out of reach. 

“Who warms your bed at night?” He blurted, his mouth moving faster than his brain.

George recoiled. “Pardon?”

Dream rocked back on his heels. God, he was shameless.

“I do.” He said, unable to keep a small, lecherous grin off his face.

George snarled at him, spitting out an acrid, “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying you cannot be the king as you are meant to be. You cannot be impartial, not while we’re together and I’m in conflict with Tommy and the others.”

“So, what? I choose between you or the throne? Is that what you’re saying?”

“ _No!_ No, that’s not what I meant, I just-” Dream’s eyes were wide and afraid, his hands a vice grip around George’s wrists. He faltered for a moment, searching George’s face desperately. “I made a mistake when I crowned you. I never thought that you would have to live like this. I never meant to put you in danger or make you afraid-”

George scoffed, throwing his head back, willing his furious tears to stop falling. “So you’re just going to take it out on me? Take it all away? Punish me for your ‘mistake’?”

Dream shook his head, trying to hold George’s face in his hands, but the smaller man pulled away before they could make contact. “Baby, _please_ , this isn’t a punishment, just let me explain-”

“Don’t _fucking_ call me that.”

George backed away defensively, pulling out the small dagger he kept in a holster on his thigh. He brandished it at Dream, blue gemstones glittering against hard steel, cutting through the air.

“That’s usually how it goes, isn’t it? Other people paying when _you_ fuck up?”

Dream raised an eyebrow at the small blade slashing before him. He gave a simpering frown, almost mocking George’s displeased face. “Put that away; you’ll hurt yourself.”

“You’re such an asshole.” George spat, stepping forward with the knife pointed at Dream’s throat. 

Dream swallowed, the knife pressing right below his Adam’s apple, grimacing as the blade cut in, a small rivulet of blood sliding down his throat.

George huffed, tears sliding down his cheeks as he raised the blade to Dream’s throat. He wanted to push it in deeper, wanted to slice it open, but his hands wouldn’t let him, frozen in place. A scream of frustration spilled from his lips as he backed down, Dream pressing his fingertips to the wound.

“George, you don’t even like being king!” Dream reasoned, dodging as George whirled back around with the blade.

“I like being yours! I like being fucking important for once!” He shouted, wraith-like in his fury, robes pooled around him.

Dream tried to grab at his hands, but George sidestepped him, breathing heavily.

“George, please. _Please,_ understand why I’m doing this. I just want to keep you safe.”

George’s face curled in betrayal and seemed to deflate, stepping back until his heels hit the windowsill, slumping down on the stone. Dream came to sit next to him, resting the palm of his hand on the small of George’s back. 

“Just tell me you hate me.”

“What? I don’t hate you.” Dream cupped George’s cheek, turning his head to face him. “I could never hate you. I do this because I care about you.”

George laughed humorlessly, muttering something under his breath. Dream just sat there, watching him tremble and run his thin fingers over the delicate silver brocade hilt of the knife.

“And if I refuse?” George seethed, his eyes broken pieces of glass, flinty and bright with tears. 

“It is not your place to refuse.” Dream explained, a shadow falling on his face. He tried to wipe George’s tears, but his hand was slapped away.

He steeled himself, standing up to walk several paces away from where George slumped. Each step ricocheted off the walls, compounding into a cacophony of leather against tile. Dream leaned down, picking up and sheathing his blade, falling back into the role of the vengeful God. Ice in his veins, no weaknesses, no vulnerabilities. When he turned, he looked around, not as a lover, not as a friend, cold and harsh. He shook his head, shook off the sight of George crumbling, alone and small, and turned back, sunlight gleaming off his armor.

“Where the fuck are you going?” George hissed, gripping the hilt of his dagger so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“I’m returning what I gave you.” Dream intoned evenly. “Sunset waits for no man, George.”

With that, he left, dodging the dagger thrown at him, blocking out George’s screams of rage, loud smashing and clattering as George destroyed the hall.

* * *

Hours later, when George had calmed down enough to walk back to his rooms, clearing out his things with a militant efficiency, he considered what Dream had said. 

_All to protect him?_ Surely not. 

He just wanted the power back to himself, toying with George’s emotions just because he could. That made more sense than anything else. If there was one thing he could depend on, it was that Dream was the most power-hungry man he’d ever known.

He was still lost in thought when Dream walked through the open door, didn’t notice the man’s presence until he spoke.

‘“What are you doing?”

George jumped, whirling around. His hands were buried in a leather bag filled with clothes and books. He looked at Dream like he was stupid, glaring at him as he laughed mockingly.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m leaving.”

Dream flinched, and George noticed his lack of armor, the most vulnerable he’d been all day. 

“Are you serious?” Dream asked, something heavy and poisoned in his throat.

George smiled at him and continued thrusting objects into his bags. “Yeah. Deadly.”

“George, you’re being a child.”

George ignored him, turning sharp on his heel to open a drawer, potions clattering around. Dream threw his hands up in exasperation, following George around the room.

“Stop it, George- hey, come on, just put your stuff down.”

George never even looked him in the eye, hauling a bag over his shoulder as he tried to brush past Dream and out the door.

“I won’t let you.” Dream growled, ripping the bag out of George’s hands and tossing it against the wall, the contents spilling out everywhere.

George pushed him, running to put his things back together. “Fuck you.” He spat, his teeth bared and white. He stumbled away, hitting the bed frame, his entire body trembling.

Dream scoffed, looking around the room. His eyes landed on George’s circlet, set aside on a desk, delicate ivy growing dull, barely visible in the deep shade. He took it in his hands, thumbing over the fine metalwork. Dream took a heavy breath, looking back to George, who sat, an effigy of suffering. He looked away, digging his nails into his palms until the pain washed away the guilt in his chest.

“You’re a monster.” George’s voice cut through the silence, resentment thick in his throat. 

Dream gazed at him, felt something ugly rear its head in his chest; something he reserved for people who wronged him, people like Tommy.

“You think of me as a monster?” Dream set the crown down again, careless as he let his eyes follow George, who began messing with his things again.

“Yes.” George glowered, setting the large satchel he’d been shoving potions into on the ground. He stopped, shaking with emotion. “I hate you.”

“You hate me?” Dream stalked towards George, watching as the shadow cast hard lines over his pale face. 

Dream backed George up against the wall, not touching him, but pure, unadulterated white-hot rage radiated off his skin. “Hate me?”

George’s chest hitched, venom burning his throat as he leaned in inches away from Dream’s face. He felt the heat of Dream pushing against him, strong arms caging him to the wall. He tongued over his words, tasting the bittersweetness of it all. “Dream?” George asked, something vulnerable and quiet in his voice.

“Yes?” Dream softened a bit, his hand coming to rest on George’s hip, gentle touch to offset the words before it _._

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” George smiled, vindictive, and watched as Dream stiffened, felt the hand at his hip squeeze until he cried out. Dream wasted no time shoving him up against the wall, slamming their mouths together.

“I hate you so fucking much.” George breathed into Dream’s mouth, his hands clutching in the fabric of Dream’s shirt. He pulled and bit at Dream’s lips until he had enough, tasting blood. “I hate you.”

“Stop fucking saying that.” Dream snarled, biting down on George’s bottom lip while he shoved his hands up George’s top, pushing his fingers in between the slats of George’s ribs. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Dream devoured George’s mouth, teeth sharp and uncaring against his lips, shoving his tongue down George’s throat. George wanted to deny him, wanted to make him stop, to fight with every fiber of his being, but Dream’s warm hands, the hands that took the crown off his head, were tight around his wrists, and his body refused to listen, weakening in that familiar grip. 

Dream’s lips slid off George’s mouth, placing themselves on the heated skin on the side of his throat. For a while, George let himself fall into the past, tumbling into nights before when Dream had worshipped every part of his body with that mouth. Nights where Dream had painted George in vibrant reds and pinks, a watercolor of love and deference. He allowed himself to bask in the heat, felt the need rise in him. Dream bit down on his flesh, and the gentle spell was broken. 

His tongue lapped at his flesh, bloodied by his teeth, suckling at wounds of lust as George whimpered, clutching onto Dream’s shoulders. 

“Fuck.” George whispered, and he felt Dream smile against his skin. Large hands rasped over his hips, pinching at soft flesh, their chests pressed together against the wall. 

“Do not refuse me.” Dream breathed over his skin, and George felt a feverish chill curl down his spine. “And I shall not refuse you.”

George looked at him for a moment, and the seconds they spent staring each other down were filled with fire and wind. It whistled through their ears, scalding their skin, Dream’s very touch threatening to press welts and brands into his body. 

He should do it. He should shove Dream off and tell him to go right back to whatever hell he hailed from. He should start screaming again, take Dream’s blade and level it to his throat, show him just how _serious_ he was. 

But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Dream gave him a sweltering smile, mouth full of lion’s teeth and blood. 

Dream’s hands pulled out from under George’s shirt, coming to rest on his chest, fiddling with the laces for a moment. His fingers curled under the deep neckline, tracing the pale skin peeking out from under it before he ripped the shirt down the center, pulling the torn fabric down George’s slim shoulders. George gasped at the action, his face flushing darker as Dream’s hungry eyes held him fast.

“Tell me what you want.” Dream asked, licking a wet stripe up George’s throat. He was so close to the veins in the pale skin. One well-placed bite, one quick slash, and he could end it all. 

“You know what I want.” George spat, and he considered pulling his knife out and cutting Dream’s mouth so that he could never make that conniving face at him again.

“Tell me, George,” Dream smiled and held George down when he tried to break free. “Beg.”

“Fuck you.” George cried out, untamed rage clawing up his throat. He gripped Dream’s jaw hard, his nails biting into the tanned skin. “Fuck you, Dream, fuck you-god, please-”

The self-satisfied look on Dream’s face cracked, words of fury and desperation pouring out of George’s mouth, begging and berating all at once. His hands grew hard and mean, digging into the soft slope of George’s hips, and when he spoke, deep black anger colored his tone.

“Shut up.” Dream leaned down and bit the thin skin covering George’s collar bones, drawing blood in the shape of his teeth, savoring the taste. “You’re so fucking ungrateful.” 

George sobbed, white-hot pain radiating up from the bite, clawing and pulling at Dream’s hair. Dream snarled against his skin, reaching up and pinning George’s wrists to the wall, glaring down at him. He snapped his hips into him, _hard_ , just to see how George would react, and sneered at the choked off moan he earned.

“Everything I’ve done for you,” Dream gritted, pulling George’s hair so their eyes could meet, blood and bone sparking something primal and destructive in his heart. “and it’s never enough.” 

  
  


“Kneel.” Dream rasped, his eyes glimmering gold and fire. George looked up at him, at the way his lips had been kissed a bloodied red, his cheekbones speaking of strength, and that nose, slightly crooked from being broken and never set quite right. George faltered, and Dream’s eyes blazed, his hands grasping George’s bare shoulders, and with an infuriating leer, slowly forced him to his knees.

_“Kneel.”_

The chilled floor radiated ice through his joints, and as George shivered, Dream looked down upon him the same way he did in the great hall. Looked at him like he was nothing. Like he was only ever a deposed monarch, hated by his people, degraded by the only person he ever sought the approval of. 

There was a strange gleam in Dream’s eyes, something animal, ragged around the edges, a threat that George could feel sinking into his very bones. 

“Open.” Dream commanded, a dark, heated current on his tongue. 

George balked, but he did as asked, hesitantly opening his mouth. Dream gripped George’s chin and pushed it skyward, pulling his jaw further apart as he leaned down. Their noses were only inches apart, and George watched curiously at that animal look marring his fine features, following the Dream’s mouth as it formed a harsh line, a raw possessive glint in those green embers, memorizing the cruel curl of his lips, the angry set of his jaw. For a moment, he thought Dream might kiss him again, but as he began to push off the floor to meet him, Dream curled his hand under his jaw, pressed the tips of their noses together, and _spat_ into his mouth. 

He flushed, embarrassment settling deep and heavy in his chest, and Dream only stared down at him, with those eyes of gilded wings and moss, pride and lust glowing in his irises. His hands passed through his golden hair, illuminated white and whispy in the light of sunset peering through the window. He was glorious, amber glass casting coats of honey onto his skin, a god, cut from shining steel and marble. The ache of shame melted away into something more profound, halfway devotional.

George knelt at his feet, hands folded in a beautiful, heretical mockery of prayer. If he listened close enough, he felt like he might hear the creak of heaven’s gates, the reckoning of their choirs, or the screams of hell, the stench of rotting flesh and crackling bone. He knelt, basking in the heat as Dream baptized him in his gaze of fire.

Dream unbuckled his pants, his eyes steady through George as they scorched a path through his skin, burning the unholy out of him, purifying him in the divine light. His belt was thrown across the room, and not even the loud clattering of falling books and vases could break their eye contact. The castle could implode around them, shatter into debris and dust, and they would never once veer from each other.

He pulled the front of his dark pants down, and George licked his lips salaciously, subtly rocking back and forth on his knees as Dream stepped closer, breathing heavy. When Dream was angry, he was rough, but that hardly mattered to George. He was thick and hot against George’s lips, and he could scarcely find enough blood in his body to blush at the greeting. He softly let his jaw fall open and allowed the head to be pushed past his bruised lips, heavy on his tongue, salt flooding his mouth. He gaped up, past the hard lines of Dream’s stomach to the face above, flushed, mouth open, his tongue pressed against his canine. 

George felt like he might just die right there, a cock weighing heavy in his mouth, on his knees like the whore Dream surely thought he was. Saliva began to gather, and George wanted to swallow it away, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything while he was held tight by that fiery amber gaze. He wanted to be used, wanted to be held fast and worked over until he couldn’t think anymore; he wanted to be close to Dream, so close he could forget everything that hurt.

Dream reached down, cupping George’s cheek. His hands, god, those hands. Hands that gut bellies, that held crowns and blades. Hands dripping in ichor, covered in blood as they cut down their enemies.

Dream ran one of those hands through his hair, and George’s heart skipped a beat. Funny, how it was the little things for him. How George had his lips wrapped around Dream’s dick, and yet it was the innocent motion of Dream carefully pulling his hair from his face that made his breath hitch. Dream could feel how George had reacted and smiled down at him, licking his lips, shiny teeth flashing in the dim light. He still made no motion to move, not pushing further down George’s throat like he wanted to, like George needed him to. A hand pulled at his chin, nudging his head up further than before, further than was comfortable. His thumb swiped along George’s bottom lip, collecting spit, before forcing itself inside his mouth, jaw stretching so wide that it hurt.

Dream’s voice sent chills down George’s spine, but he wasn’t even listening to what the man was saying. The tone, the rasp that shredded George to pieces, was all that was needed to break him down, his eyes going dark and shiny. Dream pulled his thumb out of George’s mouth, moving his hands to cradle the back of his head. The hot, salty intrusion finally, finally, began to slide down George’s throat, his tongue savoring the sensation. It was hard to ignore the deep groan that ripped through Dream, but George tried his best, not wanting to completely lose his mind just yet. 

George looked up at him, teary-eyed and flushed. His jaw strained, lips painfully stretched around Dream’s thick cock. Dark eyes were hazy, and each thrust had him making little choked off groans. Spit dripped out of his maw, streaming down his throat, messy and hot. He looked terrible, and he knew Dream fucking loved it.

“You’re such a whore aren’t you?” Dream ran his hand through George’s hair, fisting it until tears spilled out of his dark eyes. “Only thing you’re good for is being on your knees, huh?”

George made a face, intended to be a snarl, but it wasn’t exactly intimidating with a dick shoved in his mouth. His nails bit into Dream’s hips, signaling his rebellion against the statement, a small act of vengeance. Dream grinned at him, pulling his teary face flush to his pelvis, completely sheathed in George’s quivering throat. George choked, sending vibrations through Dream’s body.

“Just like that, sweetheart.” Dream groaned, a deep moan rumbling in his chest. “Just like that.”

Using the grip he had on George’s hair, he moved him up and down his cock, sliding down his waiting throat. The sensitive head kissed the back of George’s mouth, pressing down on his esophagus, bitter salt lying heavy on his tongue. George warred with himself, the debilitating urge to submit conflicting with the dark, defiled pride that screamed at him to bite down, to take Dream’s manhood in a flash of teeth and blood. Dream looked so fucking self-assured, so damn pleased with himself and George never wanted to kill a man more in his life. His hands clawed at Dream’s hips, scratching at the hard muscles, doing their best to make the knight wince. He never wanted a man to fuck him harder than he wanted Dream to do now.

Dream shoved him back down his dick, and George’s throat ached. He was sure that if he could look, he could probably see it moving inside of him. He was also sure that the sight of his throat struggling to accommodate him gave Dream no end of pleasure. He again fought the urge to bite down.

“You belong to me.” Dream grunted, and George felt hot tears slip down his cheeks. His fingertips dug into George’s hairline, bursting blood vessels, bruising skin. “You’re _mine_.”

George could hardly breathe, his throat was full, and his jaw was sore from being held open for so long. Each thrust had his hands scrabbling for purchase, spit sliding viscously down his chin onto his chest. He couldn’t think; his skull didn’t have enough room for both himself and Dream at the same time. Black spots tore holes in his vision as Dream mercilessly fucked his throat, choking and coughing while his heartbeat pounded through his ears. George began to sob, a glorious, pitiful thing and Dream glowed at the sight.

“Just be good, baby.” Dream softened, slowing his thrusts down so George could draw breath. “Be good for me; it’s all going to be okay.”

_Fuck you, Fuck you, Fuck you-_

George could do little else but moan when Dream pulled at his hair again, a little gentler this time, a bolt of pleasure shooting down his spine. Dream rolled the dark strands between his fingers and abruptly pulled out of George’s throat, resting the head of his cock on George’s puffy lips. George flushed at the action, envisioning the likely obscene sight of Dream’s leaking cock head pressing against his bruised spit-slick lips. Deviously, George ran his tongue along the slit, and Dream groaned, a beautiful, broken noise. 

“You’re beautiful.” Dream whispered to him, and George thought he might just die right there, on his knees, reduced to such a complete mess.

He knew he was supposed to have more self-respect. Dream had forsaken him. Stripped him of his power, his righteousness, taken away his favor and placed it in the hands of someone he didn’t even trust. He was supposed to be vengeful, act as if he still had an ounce of his dignity left, but how could he? Despite everything, George loved him. 

He loved everything about him. The easy smiles, the happy laughter that came so quickly, the deep-set protectiveness, every instinct in Dream’s body telling him to keep what he saw as his own safe. George wished he didn’t love the way Dream looked while he slept, at peace and heartbreakingly beautiful. He wished he could hate him. He wished he could save himself, that all the bloodshed, all the hatred in Dream’s eyes could burn that intense yearning out of him, but it couldn’t. He wished that Dream humiliating him, debasing him, dethroning him, would make George stop, but it didn’t. At this point, he didn’t think anything could. 

He couldn’t deny the fact that he liked it either. It was uniquely intimate, holding his lover on his tongue, giving him control over his breathing, his life. He liked it too much for it to be explained away as just an act of loving service or sexual gratification. If kneeling was meant for divine prayer, this was more than enough to show his own private worship.

Dream had been still a long while, gazing down at him with a strange look that spoke of something akin to guilt. It took George a moment to place, unused to whatever it was that he was seeing, an emotion foreign to Dream’s face. It was a soft crinkle around his eyes, a gentle furrowing of his brow, a faint frown on his lips. George recognized it suddenly, a sharp twist of the dagger buried in his back. Pity. It was pity.

George felt rage burn in his stomach, coils of heat and smoke screaming up his spine as Dream looked down at him, _pity_ in those terrible eyes. How _dare_ he pity him. How _dare_ he? Just as he made to fight, to jerk away, to scream and yell and make everyone who could hear him cognisant of how fucking angry he was, Dream backed away, leaving George distressed and kneeling alone on the floor.

George looked at him, too surprised to speak, watching as Dream stood, cutting a sharp silhouette in the sunset peering through the window. Broad shoulders slumped, hands grasping at nothing. 

“Don’t leave me.” Dream asked softly, his voice gentle and quiet. He sounded young, vulnerable, nothing like the domineering manipulator George knew he was. The change in his face from lustful satisfaction to such dreadful emptiness gave George whiplash. “You can’t leave.”

George just stared at him, lips bruised, tears drying on his cheeks. He shifted to a more comfortable position, tucking his knees to his chest and sitting back against the wall. Dream still had his dick out, and it might’ve even been laughable if George didn’t think he’d still eat him alive.

“Please.” Dream whispered. “Baby.”

Dream did not bare his teeth, did not scream out in rage nor passion. He looked pained, his face pale, stricken by the taunts of abandonment. George felt himself break; felt himself get that much weaker, hated how the pet name sent warm waves of affection cascading through his chest. Inexplicable guilt washed through him, though he knew he’d no reason to feel as such, a terrible sensation of bugs crawling under his skin as he looked upon the crumbling man before him.

“Come here.” George beckoned, damning himself for his weakness. Quickly, Dream took him in his arms, cradling him like he was made of glass. Tears threatened to spill out of his vibrant eyes, and George couldn’t bear the sight, so he closed his own.

“Forgive me.” Dream begged, his voice breaking, combing his warrior’s hands through George’s hair. His arms, strong and broad, holding him like he was the most precious thing he’d ever felt, like he was drowning, and George was the only thing keeping him afloat.

“How?” George murmured, slowly clambering into Dream’s lap. His hands cradled Dream’s face, fingertips rasping over the short stubble. 

Dream felt George soften against him, press a kiss to the tops of his cheekbone. Hands wrapped around the back of his neck, dark eyes blown out and shiny as George looked at him.

“Take me to bed, Dream.”

* * *

Dream had him there, in the sheets of a bed that no longer belonged to him, working him open on his fingers until George cried out for more. 

He gave it to him, everything he wanted, kissing him gently, an all-consuming heat sizzling through his veins. 

George cried all the while, tears of rage, of pleasure, of gold and silver. He tangled his hands in Dream’s hair, bucking his hips into his touch. 

When Dream finally slid into him, his thighs spread wide around Dream’s strong hips, they met eyes, and a single truth was known between them.

Dream’s face softened, harsh gold melting into the languid roll of his hips, smooth into George’s body. George hated it, hated the gentle curl of his mouth, the kind hands on his hips, how terribly, brutally _in love_ Dream looked. He wanted to make him angry, make him violent and rough, fuck him faster and harder than he could take until he screamed. 

But he knew Dream wouldn’t, not like this, not now.

“Tell me you love me.” Dream groaned into his ear, pressing a kiss wherever his mouth could reach.

George shook his head, breathy and petulant. He could barely speak, moans and gasps escaping his lips, lewd noises unlike any other. There was a distinct difference between internally admitting his debilitating devotion to Dream and saying it out loud for him to hear.

“Say it, George.” Dream’s hands were warm, and George wanted nothing more than to melt into them. “Say you love me.”

“S-stop it, _ah-_ ” Dream snapped his hips into George, watching as George writhed in pleasure, his skin dewy with sweat. “Please, I can’t, _I_ _can’t-_ ”

Dream pressed their foreheads together, rolling his hips into him, reveling in the slick heat. George raised his jaw, licking at Dream’s chapped lips until they opened, consumed with raw need as they cherished each other.

“I love _you_.” Dream kissed into his throat. His hands moved to George’s waist, a firm grip to keep him steady as he began thrusting harder. He devoted his mouth to George’s collar bones, lapping over smooth skin and wounds, an apology in the form of his tongue.

“M-more, I want more, give me- give me-.” George whined, wrapping his legs around Dream’s body. He grabbed Dream’s face, forcing golden eyes to meet silt. He slid up the bed with the force of Dream’s thrusts, holding onto his broad shoulders. 

George felt pleasure racketeering up his belly, climbing up his delicate bones, burning through the taut muscle. Dream slid in and out, rubbing against sensitive nerves, until George sobbed out, broken. 

“Let me- please, Dream, let me come.” He begged, looking small, hair a mess, throat littered with bruises. 

“Tell me, George.” Dream mumbled, desperation in his eyes. “Just say it.”

“Dream-” 

“Just say it, fuck, just tell me, baby, _please_.” 

They stopped, Dream buried deep inside of George, staring down at him, searching him for any hint of what he so badly desired.

George swallowed, bringing his hands to hold Dream’s face. He passed his thumbs over his flushed cheeks, golden eyes bleeding pain.

“I love you,” George whispered, and Dream could see he meant it, could see him clearly, his wrathful beauty. It was enough to make Dream choke, a hard lump in his throat threatening to release sobs of relief. "I love you, Dream."

With a grateful smile, Dream began to grind into him, kissing the tears off his cheeks. He held George close to his chest, lifting a long leg over his shoulder. George keened as Dream brushed past his prostate, biting down on the crook of Dream's shoulder to muffle his moans. Dream wrapped his hand around George, stroking him in time with his thrusts, paying special attention to the head. George whined, thighs shaking as Dream pressed into the most sensitive parts of his body, blessed friction filling up his lungs, impossible to think of anything but the god above him. 

George came with a wet sob, clenching down hard onto Dream, flushed and exhausted as Dream fucked him through it, kissing him hard enough to make him stay still. He tasted of honey and tears, blood and smoke, pushing fear and betrayal into Dream's mouth and getting confessions of guilt in return. Dream's hands pressed bruises into his hips, fingertips staining a reminder of who he belonged to. He whispered sweet words into Dream's ears, devotionals and hymns in the form of delicate whines and whimpers.

It didn’t take much for Dream to finish, pulling out and stroking himself until he spilled over George’s stomach, painting the soft skin white. His hips rolled forward, into nothingness as they bathed in the humming afterglow.

Dream watched as George came back to himself, panting heavily as George ran his fingers through the cum on his belly. A dark possessiveness roiled through his heart, spurred on by the obscene sight. George whined, passing his hand over the hard muscles of Dream's chest. Dream caught George's hand in his own, kissing over each knuckle before he let it go, pulling his shirt off his head, wiping George down with care, then leaning down to kiss the bruises he’d left on his throat, his chest, his wrists. 

“I’m sorry.” Dream said in a low voice, crackling with emotion.

George pulled Dream down on top of him, shutting him up with a deft kiss. Dream had the thought that maybe, if he held him close enough, he could make George could feel his heartbeat, feel the way it yearned for him, the way it hurt. Dream wanted to pull them together, leave no space between them, crawl into his skin, so they could never be apart. The guilt was suffocating, a thousand pounds of agony laying deep into his soul. He moved to speak, his lips parting, but he never was able to say anything. He ran his fingers down the curve of George’s spine one last time before he drifted off to sleep, memorizing the pattern of his bones, the velvet of his skin. 

Come tomorrow, and they might go back to hard glares and biting words, but for tonight, at least, George was safe, wrapped in gilded arms, where he belonged. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> well, lmk what u thought. seriously, this shit is absurdly long, I'm so sorry. ty if u made it this far :) my twt is @thediscontent_ if u wanna like, scream at me or some shit. idk. ily, hope u liked, and ill see u next time.  
> oh also, in case anyone was wondering, apotheosis has two meanings, both of which i find to be suitable interpretations for this specific fic.  
> it can either be used as a word to describe the climax of a story, which, uh....yeah, this is sort of exactly that in their relationship, or it's deifying someone, elevating them to the status of a god, which, from george's perspective at least, is sort of an underlying theme.  
> [apotheosis playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4v3QcovQ7QjwS6vvXZiD8j?si=f64fcd1ef921480b)


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